


Hue and Run: the birth of The King in Yellow

by okapi



Category: The King in Yellow - Robert W. Chambers
Genre: Angst, Death, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Historical Inaccuracy, Illuminated manuscripts, Madness, Nuns, Origin Story, Suicide, the king in yellow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 00:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21519055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: When a yellow ink accidentally kills her beloved Camilla, Cassilda writes the second act ofThe King in Yellow.An origin story for the fictional playThe King in Yellow.
Relationships: Cassilda/Camilla
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: The 100 Multifandom Challenge





	1. Camilla's Song

**Author's Note:**

> Long-time readers will easily recognize my fem!John and fem!Sherlock in Camilla and Cassilda. 
> 
> For the DW 100 Fandoms prompt 087. run.
> 
> My information on inks in illuminated manuscripts is taking from a children's book called _The Ink Garden of Brother Theophane_ by C. M. Millen.

_I’ve a new story._

_What’s it called?_

_The King in Yellow._

_Tell me._

We weren’t speaking aloud. It was long after dark, long past the hour that all were consigned to repose and to silence.

She and I were speaking our own language, in our own alphabet and through our own medium.

Hands.

It was all her doing. Every few days for a month, she had moved our beds a slight bit closer to each other. I did not protest, but I did not understand, either, until, at last, one night, lying on our backs, heads turned towards the other, she extended her arm. I did the same, and our fingers touched.

Then I understood.

She taught me the language, word by word, and by the following month, we were conversing freely every night until sleep overtook me.

She slept little.

She was clever, the cleverest person I’d ever known or ever would know, and she told the most wonderful stories.

_I’ve a new story._

_What’s it called?_

_The King in Yellow._

_Tell me._

I was almost feverish with anticipation.

_Along the shore the cloud waves break,_

_the twin suns sink beneath the lake._

_The shadows lengthen_

_in Carcosa._

My heart beat loud and fast in my ears.

_Carcosa?_

_Yes, Carcosa._

She told the most wonderful stories, stories of mystery and clever creatures, stories of fantastic voyages, grave peril, and amazing bravery. She told stories that made my breath catch in my throat. She told stories that made me bite my lip and bury my face in my pillow, stifling forbidden laughter. Every night she would add to the tale until the end. Oh, the end! I wept. My fingers, wet with tears, would touch hers, and she would squeeze them.

_Give me time, little round one, and I shall think of another._

I was pierced by two swords, my wretched ingratitude for all she had spun and my hopeless longing for another yarn.

Nights were magic. Days were drudgery.

In the mornings, we woke at the appointed hour by the appointed knock and readied ourselves in the appointed manner. Well, almost. We washed and dressed, and though strictly forbidden, she brushed my hair, and I brushed hers. She was tall and lean, all angles and sharp corners, with a curtain of raven dark hair that fell to her waist. Before we left our cell for the day, she would take my hand.

_Until tonight, Camilla._

_Until tonight, Cassilda._

Those were our finger-names.

I would not see her again until the end of the day. Like all, I practiced custody of the eyes and within the stone walls, I saw no one and nothing which was not strictly necessary.

I did not see her at meals or in chapel, and after breakfast and morning prayers, she went up to the scriptorium, and I went down to the pits.

The only occasion I had cause to be near her was when the ink supplies ran low, but even then I would carry the heavy flagons to the vestibule outside the scriptorium and fill the smaller flagons which would, in turn, be used to fill the scribes’ wells. I would do my allotted task without a stray glance. Often, I filled the small flagons in her presence, her fingers, more known to me than my own, would touch the coarse brown wool of her coarse brown robe. How she came by that task, to oversee my pouring, I never had the temerity to ask. With head bowed, I would perform my duty, and she would thank me. And I would nod and return to the pits.

Oh, sometimes I worked in the kitchen, and sometimes I toiled in the garden, and sometimes I went abroad and gathered wood and bark, but most of the time, I kept vigil by the pots.

Stirring, stirring, stirring.

Stoking the fire, feeding the flames.

But now I was thinking of Carcosa.

Every night, she built a little more of it with her words, and every day, as I stirred the pots, I imagined it.

In colour. In every colour.

I went out for wood, thinking of the Lake of Hali and the cloud waves that rolled and broke on its shores. I passed a bilberry bush and, acting upon sheer devilment, crushed some of the berries with a stick. The blue syrup ran over my fingers and dotted the forest floor. I used a second stick to draw upon the pale underside of a large leaf. I drew my vision of the Lake of Hali, its clouds and its shores.

Using more subterfuge than I’d ever employed, I brought the leaf back and presented it to her that night, just before we took to our beds.

Her grey eyes widened, and a smile threatened to crack her face in half.

‘Hali,’ she mouthed.

I nodded and would’ve clapped but for her hands which stopped mine just in time.

I dove into bed and pulled the covers over my head. Then I stuck my arm out.

_Thank you. It’s beautiful._

_Tell me more._

_Would you like to hear about the purple beast of Demhe which lives in its cloudy depths?_

_Oh, yes!_

From then on, the days that I was sent outside the stone walls, either to the woods or to the garden, I was searching for materials for inks. I was searching for colours, the colours of Carcosa, of Aldebaran, of Hastur, of Demhe, and of Yhtill.

I was never happier when I could present her with a leaf.

_Tomorrow we are going to search for oak gall._

I did not know what it meant, so I pretended to fall asleep and then did fall asleep, wondering.

* * *

The following morning, they came for me in the pits and brought me to her.

I took the basket her hand proffered without a word or a glance and followed her, obediently.

“When treated, it will make an ink darker than the thorne bark,” she explained when we were passed the gates. “But I’m doubtful that our oaks will be so obliging with their insolence. Lead the way.”

I led the way to the oaks.

And when we were well into the woods, far from any ear or censure, she stopped and sang:

_Along the shore the cloud waves break_

_the twin suns sink beneath the lake_

_The shadows lengthen_

_in Carcosa._

_Strange is the night where black stars rise,_

_and strange moons circle through the skies,_

_but stranger still is_

_lost Carcosa._

I had never heard the words said aloud, and I trembled before her, my eyes filling with tears.

Immediately, I dropped my chin and fixed my eyes to the ground and felt the heat of shame creep up into my face.

Then three fingers were under my jaw, lifting my face.

The tears washed free of my vision, and I could see her shake her head.

We found no gall and returned by mid-day.

I collected a portion of soot and that night, before retiring, drew with my finger on my arm.

‘Shadows. Black stars. Strange moons,’ I mouthed.

She beamed.

* * *

I was hungry for colours, and found them in blackberries, madder roots, weld blossoms, and cabbage leaves, which I smuggled down into the pits where I prepared them and painted with them upon leaves, always careful to destroy the fruits of my labours before anyone noticed.

But one colour which eluded me.

Yellow.

Oh, there were onion skins. And unripe buckthorn berries. But nothing was good enough, nothing was yellow enough, for the King in Yellow.

I’d given the search up in despair when I found it.

I made a point every visit to the woods of checking the oaks for gall, and one day in late summer, I found the dark ball in the curve of a trunk.

And beneath that oak was a bed of flowers wholly unknown to me. The flowers resembled the saffron crocus but the yellow of their stamens was more brilliant than the sun.

My heart almost burst. Here was a yellow worthy of the King of Carcosa!

I collected all the blossoms and hid them at the bottom of my cart and ran back to the stone walls.

_Thank you for the gall. I will save some for the black stars that fall and the strange moons that circle._

_I have yellow, too._

_Yes?_

_Yes!_

The following morning, she came down to the pits herself.

I was so astonished that I stood still, wooden, fixed, until a sharp reprimand reminded me of the pots.

Stirring, stirring, stirring.

I told myself not to listen. But I listened.

She was preparing the gall herself because she did not entrust the task to any other scribe.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked over and into my field of vision was slipped a small piece of parchment. The hand fell from my shoulder to my own hand.

_Yours._

I knew it should be yellow.

_Now. When no one is watching. I will stir the pots._

That night, before retiring, I showed the parchment to her.

_The King in Yellow?_

_Yes._

_And this?_

She pointed to below the figure of the King.

My heart broke like a child’s. I turned away.

Her hand rested heavily on my shoulder like a command.

I looked back.

_I am simple._

_The world is simple. You are not. Tell me._

_The Yellow Sign._

_What is the Yellow Sign?_

_Hands. Ours._

I put her hand in mine and looked up into her eyes.

She nodded.

_Perfect._

Suddenly, the world was brown and her.

And I did not realise until she’d released me that I had been in her embrace.

_I have more yellow ink. I saved it in the spare flagon._

_I’ll bring you another piece of parchment._

_The King at the masquerade?_

_And the Yellow Sign._

* * *

It began with a tiny mistake, a drip of yellow where I did not want one, and I was using the blade to scrape away the spot so that the King and the Sign would be perfect, and I was holding the small square of parchment with the other hand, and pushing the blade, and my hand slipped, and the blade sliced across my fingers and knocked the uncorked flagon of ink.

The flagon toppled.

I righted the flagon but not before a yellow spray had crossed swords with the red of my blood.

I watched, curiosity mingled with horror as the yellow ink ran into the red. It did not run across my fingers. It did not run off my fingers and onto my cloak or the ground.

It ran, or so it seemed, into the gashes, the way rushing rainwater fills crevices in the stone path.

The yellow ink ran into me.

The yellow ink ran into me and disappeared.

* * *

Eyes looked wildly into mine. Two hands clasped fierce in prayer around my own hand. A head bowed in divine supplication, and we spoke without speaking.

_Everything is yellow. You are yellow._

_The ink was poison. I am searching for a remedy. Do not succumb. Fight! I will find the antidote._

_Tell me the mysteries of the Hyades._

_Drink this, and I will._

* * *

_Tell me about the clouds rolling and breaking on the shores of Lake Hali._

_Try this, and I will. It's bitter, but it may work._

* * *

_Tell me about Yhtill._

_Suffer this and I will._

* * *

_Tell me about Hastur._

_Rest and I will._

* * *

_Tell me about the cloudy depths of Demhe._

_Don’t go! Don’t leave me!_

_As if I could ever leave you. Tell me of the masquerade where Cassilda wore a dress of—what colour was it?_

_Raven violet._

_…ah, yes, blackberry…_

_…and Camilla, the little round one with the gilded hair, wore a dress of deepest blue…_

_…bilberry…_

_…and they danced._

_Danced?_

_They held each other and swayed as the dark stars fell about them. In the boughs, all the birds of lost Carcosa sang sweetly._

_Until tonight, Cassilda._

_Until tonight, Camilla._


	2. Cassilda's Death and the Birth of The King in Yellow

Black was the colour of death. It was the colour of gall. But it was also the colour of words on parchment. It was the colour of darkness which concealed hands reaching out to touch and speak.

Black was the colour of stars that fell in lost Carcosa.

Black was not a stain.

But yellow?

Yellow was a different hue altogether.

Yellow was a stain. It was a harbinger of a living death worse than earthly punishment, worse than corporal deprivation.

Yellow was the ink that had seeped into her and poisoned her and bled all colour, all the gentleness, all the significance from my world.

Yellow, its sallow, jaundiced wretchedness, ran and despoilt everything it brushed.

Yellow was not gold. It was not treasure.

Yellow was pox, curse, blight, and I hated it.

* * *

Because of my skill, I was given more liberty than most, and I had written the first act of _The King in Yellow_ in secret, between Hours and Bestiaries and Truths. I had hidden the pages from her and from the world, affixing them in a collective beneath the washstand. I had planned to present them to her as a surprise and watch her eyes light the way her fingers did when she begged for a new story.

_Tell me._

How I adored her! How I lived to spin her tales and make her fingers fly against mine. She scarcely looked at me, but I never wanted to look at anything but her.

The first night she’d fallen asleep with her hand outstretched, I’d stayed staring at her hand until dawn, but then she’d woken up in such agony, I felt disgraceful. After that, whenever she fell asleep like that, I tucked her arm back under her blanket and press my lips to the sliver of gilded hair peeking out from her cap.

I would kiss her, and, in her sleep, she would tap my name against the bedding.

_Cassilda._

My stories consumed her as much as they consumed me. How could they not? No matter what anyone said, she was not simple, and what had she to think about, always stuck as she was down in the dungeon with those foul pots?

I told her tales, and I silently purred when she asked for more, and when she presented me with the first of her painted leaves, I finally understood the meaning of ecstasy.

We might have gone on that like that forever, but for the yellow.

* * *

I had finished all but the final scene of the first act when the yellow poison claimed her. In truth, I quickly forgot about the play, absorbed as I was in searching for a cure, an antidote.

Admitting defeat and realising that I was in danger of missing her last precious moments of breath by pouring over some failed alchemy, I took up my place at her side in the infirmary, that ghastly tomb.

It was then and there, as I sat by her side, that I remembered the pages, but I dared not risk the them being confiscated and burned.

She wanted to hear _The King in Yellow_ , so I recounted it again and again, my hands gripping hers, head bowed, eyes closed.

Carcosa. Lake Hali. Hastur. Yhtill. Demhe.

The first act was a lovely little yarn, just the kind she liked, full of sweetness and colour and pretty adventures, all save the final scene, which I had still not yet composed or even considered when she tapped her farewell on my palm.

I thought of the scene, or rather it surfaced in my thoughts, when I was removing her cap and taking my knife, the one I used to sharpen my quills, and cutting her long gilded hair and tying it in a plait and tucking the braid in my cloak and returning the cap to her sweet little lifeless head.

Cassilda running through the streets of Carcosa, shrieking,

_“Not upon us, oh, king! Not upon us!”_

And later, as I made my way back to the scriptorium, I conjured another verse to Cassilda’s song.

_Song of my soul, my voice is dead,_

_Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed_

_Shall dry and die in_

_lost Carcosa_.

I was no longer Cassilda. Cassilda had died at the last touch of Camilla’s hand.

I was now the King, the King who wore no mask.

And I really was a king because after her death I was suddenly subject to no offices and no rules.

By day, I copied manuscripts as before, but by night, I was given leave to go down to the pits, where I stirred the pots and worked on the second act of _The King in Yellow_.

From the very first line, I filled it with irresistible truths to driver the reader to the very same madness that consumed me. The madness was not only in the words, it was also in the ink, the hues which she had brought into my life and which were gone forever. The madness was in the symbol of our joined hands, which I made certain would never bring anyone anything but pain. The madness was in the carving of the parchment, in every fibre and filament of the drama.

I poured out my grief into it. I poured out my loneliness and my helplessness and my despair. I soaked the pages in my misery and imbued them with that everlasting fragrance.

I spent every waking hour thinking of it.

Without her, even an hour or two of fitful sleep in my solitary cell was enough to make me scream, but I did not scream. I skipped back down to the pits.

I boiled. I stirred. I scratched.

And when it was done, when the second act of _The King in Yellow_ was finished, I bound the pages with her hair and allowed myself to be caught with it.

It was a trial, and when a stalwart, brown-woolen beacon of reserve, rectitude, and moral superiority was reduced to a gibbering, drooling idiot, I considered my efforts a success. Two idiots later and I was collecting my things, a spade, a cart, a small flagon of yellow ink, partially spilt, and _The King in Yellow_ sealed in an oilskin, and leaving the stone walls behind me.

I dug her up, of course.

And then I carried her into the woods, almost running, singing.

_Along the shore the cloud waves break,_

_the twin suns sink behind the lake._

_The shadows lengthen_

_in Carcosa!_

_Strange is the night where black stars rise,_

_and strange moons circle through the skies,_

_but stranger still is_

_lost Carcosa!_

The yellow flowers were no longer there, but the galled oak was.

I dug her grave. Then I buried her with her arm outstretched.

Then, I slept. After all, grave digging is dreadful work!

When I woke, I dug my own grave and sat in it.

I put the small flagon to my lips and allowed the yellow ink to run down my throat. I let the vessel fall from my fingers.

I laid down with one arm curled around the manuscript and the other arm extended towards her. I twined my fingers in hers.

I sank, and the ground welcomed me, folding soft earthen layers over top of me.

Curious visions flashed behind my closed eyes.

A mad cat slashing a monster’s throat. A marble rabbit. The devil’s own organist. And, finally, an artist and a muse fearing the juicy coffin-worm who was to ferry them on.

I could make no sense of them, but then I didn’t need to.

I clutched the manuscript tighter to my bosom, and I found her fingers and tapped.

_Until tonight, Camilla._

And she tapped back.

_Until tonight, Cassilda._

And such was the last act of The King in Yellow.


End file.
